Three times it happened, and one time it didn't
by AnnieXMuller
Summary: Not for the spoiler free! Contains spoilers for 501. Post-Always, Pre-Before The Storm. Title says it all.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: (Potential?) S****poilers for 501, so not for the spoiler-free! **

**Inspired by my own imagination, a couple of interviews, and by what the promo & promo pics/poster show & suggest. So, of course, there will be multiple orgasms, tattoos, ice cubes, and handcuffs.  
**

**Some thank yous: To Docnerd89 for her wonderful prompt of "Coffee and Soul". While I couldn't do that gorgeous prompt justice by weaving an entire fic around it, I hope how I subtly worked it into this fic is enough. **  
**To Brookemopolitan for waving the porn poms that kept me typing, and whose PM (FOUR TIMES!) inspired this whole fic. **  
**To all the wonderful peeps on Twitter who constantly pull me out of 'woe is me' funks when I hate on my writing, and keep me pushing on. I'm sorry I'm such a headcase when it comes to writing fic, and I thank you all for your never ending patience.**  
**And finally, but not any less importantly, all of you who review. You make me smile (some make me question everything and hate on myself, but that's all good because I need that sometimes too), you make me want to keep writing even when I don't feel like I can, and every word you write in those reviews make me want to build on these "skills" and write something even better than the last fic. :-) **

**And now, if you're not sick of my words yet, on to the fic...**

* * *

**Three times it happened - and one time it didn't**

**Round One**

It could have all too easily happened vertically in Castle's living room. Their first time together, unyielding and rough against his front door. Clothing blindly peeled off, discarded haphazardly around them, behind him. In a Bacchic frenzy spurred on by physical need, by pure arousal, with Beckett's cool, damp flesh pressed back against the smooth, hard surface, he could have pressed his lips into her shoulder, grazed her skin with his teeth, and taken her there. Perhaps he would have allowed his tongue to skim her clavicle, but his kisses would have been sloppy, his thrusts lacking rhythm, his need overpowering, from the animalistic atmosphere that dominated them both.

It could have happened in such a way.

But it didn't.

The moment his lips had found her scar, the shift in atmosphere had affected them both. With his hand first clasped between hers, then pressed to her chest, he calmed with her. Her fingertips grazing his jaw, his cheek, her lips nipping at his, she soothed the turbulent air raging around them - and led him to his bedroom.

* * *

On sheets she could never afford, in a bed she might never leave, writhing beneath him, before arching back above, she makes love to him with more soul than she's felt with any before him. She leans forward, down to him, and breathes in his scent, captures the taste of him on her tongue, and it's all so _Castle_. Her mouth open, her lips possessing his, it's all right there: a slight burn of alcohol, a spicy hint of coffee. Her nose nudging his skin, it surrounds her: that familiar aftershave, and the scent that's just _him. _In a darkened room, lit only by a couple of candles after a predictable power-outage, she could have been sleeping with anyone. But when she opened her eyes, his face was there, the same face she has seen behind closed lids for years now, and it's that, and the familiar feel of his skin, and the overpowering and captivating scent that surrounds her, that come together now to incite too much emotion. She has to push up, arch back, distance herself. But it has taken hold.

This is real.

This is happening.

It catches her off-guard, the way her heart swells in her chest, the tears that threaten to form behind her eyes, how it all seems to send an intense surge of something heated, something electric, down to her core. Her orgasm almost blindsides her, building quickly and releasing with an intensity that could have almost stopped her heart. It certainly stopped her breathing even if only for a moment, that felt like a lifetime. She stills above him, eyes closed, lips parted, and her fingers grip his thighs behind her to keep her upright. Then the waves roll through her, crash over her, and she's twitching and shuddering, her muscles clamping, before releasing, pulsing and throbbing. Her body betrays her, and she pushes off his thighs, straightens her spine briefly, and leans forward, her body almost floating down on a post-orgasmic cloud to cover his. Chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose, she smiles, claims his lips, and then grips at him, keeps him anchored, as he begins to thrust up into her, until he soon finds his own release.

* * *

Later, when her body is pliant and relaxed beside his, he studies her in the candle-light. On her side, facing him, their eyes lock as his hand comes to rest over her scar once more. He doesn't think he's ever seen her so at peace before. He understands the enormity of the day she is yet to elaborate on, his writer's imagination not necessary as he reads her body, her eyes, her heartbeat beneath his hand.

The lights flicker around them, once, twice, before coming on again, and it's almost blinding.

The light.

The clarity.

His love for her.

He moves carefully, slowly, to extinguish the candles, to dim the lights, and settles back down next to her again. Where he belongs. She has rolled onto her stomach now, her head turned away from him, and he drops a light kiss to the slick skin of her shoulder, tastes the salty tang of sweat, and then he begins an exploration of his fingertips upon her body while he waits for her to recover enough for round two.

* * *

**AN: This fic is complete, and time allowing I will post a chapter a day. Reviews would be lovely (and - I won't lie - completely motivating)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Please note the rating change. This story is now M.****  
**

* * *

**Round Two**

A bedside lamp casts a soft light over the subdued atmosphere in the room, illuminating the curves and planes of her body. Her skin glows beneath the light, shining from the thin sheen of sweat. The glistening brightens the ink of the small tattoo on her lower-back, until the red, orange and blue shades burn like a flame - and like a moth he is drawn to it. He inches closer, on his side, and reaches a hand to the design permanently etched into her skin. He traces the shape with just the tip of his index finger, lightly gliding up and down, following the same path the tattoo machine created, led by an artist's hand, over a decade prior. She had been a different person back then, and the design shows that. It is no butterfly, no heart or flower, but it is feminine, and young, with just a hint of rebellion. There is no darkness in it, no hint of the pain she had been yet to face, battle through, and overcome.

* * *

She isn't sleeping, merely resting. Preparing. Planning. Anticipating.

On her stomach, her head on the pillow that smells like him, facing away, she lays peacefully while his fingertips dance over her skin. Her body cooling, her sensitized skin calming, his touch does not tickle nor cause her to squirm. Sated and warm, she closes her eyes as each sweep of his fingers upon her takes her ever closer to sleep. Except, she doesn't want to sleep, doesn't want to drift off and lose this awareness of his touch, his smell, of _him_. She opens her eyes, resists the pull of sleep, and blinks to clear her vision. With her hands resting beneath the pillow, her elbows out, she turns her head to face him and meets his eyes.

* * *

His fingertip traces a memorized pattern while his eyes hold hers. A flash of disbelief in his eyes, and she smiles. Her own smile, disappearing into the pillow as she buries her face in it, is a little sheepish, a little awkward. Because it's hitting them both now, and he just wants to absorb it all and memorize every curve, and she's still learning how to react to that, how to be as honest with him as he is with her. It's barely midnight, still early. Both have all night.

* * *

He draws a trail up her spine, until his fingers move up into her drying hair. He eases out the tangles, smoothing the strands with a gentle hand. He works through the curls already forming, fanning them out across her shoulders as he goes. He hears her soft sigh, muffled but audible, and begins to draw small circles on her scalp, hoping that the lingering tension will dissipate with his touch.

* * *

She slowly lifts her head from the pillow, turns to face him, his hand staying in her hair as she does so. She feels his fingers apply just a little more pressure against her scalp, massaging her fears away, and she smiles. She smiles, because he's _Castle_, and she can't act all coy like she hasn't wanted to jump him since before they even met. Her smile falters, shifts and becomes altered, as her eyes begin to mirror the arousal darkening his. She had seen this look in his eyes before, many times in the past four years, but she had been stubborn, refused to assign a word to what she saw there. This night, little more than an hour previous, she could no longer deny that word. And now it surges through her, courses through her veins, and consumes her.

Fire. Burning, desperate, need. For him. For only him.

Her body shifts, her arms sliding out from under the pillow, as she turns onto her side, reaches for him, his body meeting hers as he too bridges the small gap between them. His fingers are still tangled in her hair, his palm holding the back of her head, holding her in place, as his lips crash into hers. Pelvises meet, and she throws a leg across his, her heel digging into his flesh to pull him closer to her. Her lips slide across his, her fingers pressing possessively into his warm skin, firm into his biceps, keeping him from pulling back. She opens her mouth to him, his tongue seeking entrance, and she moans into the kiss, around his tongue, around his taste. With each sweep of tongue against tongue, each small crescent-shaped indentation left on his skin by her fingernails, she feels him stir between them. Her hand releases his arm, dips down and slips into the small space still present where their flesh doesn't quite make contact. She wraps her warm fingers around his hot, hard length, and strokes him from base to tip. She pours all her skills, all her tricks, into this moment.

Oh, she has more - a warm mouth, cool ice - but they will come later.

She smiles against his lips as he loses focus for a moment, her touch causing him to pause momentarily, his lips to still. She squeezes him as her hand comes to rest at his tip, her fingers carefully tightening and releasing, and she's neither gentle nor rough with him as her hand beats out a drumming rhythm, mimicking a heart-beat.

* * *

He has lost focus now, her hand on him drawing all the blood from his brain south, the rhythm of the beat fooling his body into where his heart currently resides.

But it's all a lie.

His heart rests completely with her now, solely in her possession.

And then he stops thinking, growls against her lips, when the tip of his painfully hard shaft slides against her wet heat, guided by her hand. She shifts the leg thrown across his hip, angles her pelvis slightly higher, and draws him in. He enters her, pushes into her warmth, until he is fully encased by her.

Surrounded.

Her muscles begin a familiar flutter around him, and she tears her lips from his, her head falling back just slightly, her breath coming in shorter gasps. He learned earlier just how to make Kate Beckett whimper, and with a quick shift of his hips, a short thrust, she drops her head and presses her lips against his neck, and the sounds leave her lips once more. Both her arms wrap around him, and she holds him as he continues the short thrusts, hitting a spot that makes her both gasp and cry out, with quick, sharp movements. Her body shudders against his, and he knows she's close, knows how to bring her over the edge. Sliding a hand between them, he gathers moisture on the tip of a finger, and slides it across the little bunch of nerves that undo her with ease.

* * *

She hears the small cry as it leaves her lips, and the sound is so muffled by his neck that it's almost a strangled sob. Her rhythm is thrown off as his fingertip circles her, and she feels wanton, untamed and free. The roughened pad of his touch mixing with her slickness is exquisite, and she can't hold on, can't wait for him.  
He continues to thrust, continues to slide his fingers over her, as she shatters around him. She doesn't stop, her entire body undulating against him, allowing him to draw out her orgasm, until she can take it no more, until she has to reach between them to brush his hand away, before it becomes _too much_. He rolls them, repositions them so she is on her back staring up at him through glazed eyes behind half-hooded lids. Her eyelashes bat against her skin as she struggles to keep from closing her eyes completely. But she fights, keeps her eyes as open as she can while she recovers, and she holds his gaze as he presses her raised leg back until her thigh is almost flush against her torso, and slides in and out of her with long strokes.

* * *

Her hands are warm on his chest, her palms resting flat. The warmth slides lower, her touch skimming down to his stomach, lower, grazing his hips, and then back - to grip into the soft flesh and hold him closer. His thrusts are shortened by her touch, but he's close now too, the feeling of her coming around him almost ending him then. But he has kept some semblance of control, needing this to all last just a little longer.  
She draws her body up until her mouth meets his shoulder, and she bites down gently, nips lightly, before soothing his skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Her hands, her lips and teeth and tongue, on his skin, the feel of her around him and the friction created by his thrusts, and he can't hold onto that control any longer. Doesn't want to. His own orgasm washes waves of pleasure over him, and in that moment he hears her sharp inhale of breath, feels her body go rigid, and she's coming again from his thrusts alone - but somewhere in his sex-addled blood-starved brain, he thinks he can do better than that, so he's already planning a round three.

* * *

Pressing her lips against his skin, he twitches within her, her muscles pulsating as she trembles beneath him - and she already knows what she has planned for him next...

* * *

**AN: FYI if my Amazon package with Frozen Heat and the S4 DVDs comes tomorrow, don't expect another fic update until Monday ;-)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I am a terrible person who forgot to thank You'vegotthis (aka the brilliant DrPrincessB). Between her and Brookemopolitan I was just doomed to write this fic, no matter how many times I tried to put my foot down and refuse. Whether Kate is referring to her tattoo, her ice cube trick, handcuffs (or something else entirely!), when she says "So, you liked it?" in the promo, well who knows. But it was DrPrincessB suggesting the tattoo that really made the possibility of writing this fic linger in my head, and it was Brookemopolitan who gave me that final push. THANK YOU, both of you, for sending me words I just couldn't resist!  
**

* * *

**Round Three**

He is leaning across the bed, his hand searching around in an open bedside drawer, when she comes back from the kitchen, an ice cube tray in her possession and a smirk playing on her lips. She stands at the foot of the bed, and waits - she waits for him to realize she has returned, waits for him to see what she now holds. He's oblivious as he searches for... what, she can't even begin to imagine. But he's determined, and so she waits.

It's dark out, barely 3AM, she guesses, since he doesn't have a bedside clock, and she hasn't checked her phone all night. He still has the bedside lamp burning, its light is soft, but more than enough to give her one heck of a view, as shadows are cast upon his skin in exquisite ways. The sheet has drifted as he hunts out the item, slipped down until it now barely covers him at all. She sucks her lower lip between her teeth at the view before her, her eyes fixed on the exposed flesh of his ass. He rummages around still, leaning further, his eyes searching the drawer for...

And then he withdraws his hand, turns to find her watching, waiting.

He raises his hand, his body language victorious, and dangles a gaudy, positively trashy - yet familiar - pair of handcuffs on his index finger.

And he grins.

She rolls her eyes, raises the hand holding the tray, and presents him with her own surprise.

And it's game on.

* * *

He knows she doesn't have her cuffs on her; he peeled every sodden piece of clothing off her damp body, and there is no pair of handcuffs in the pile on the floor. He remembered what he had stashed away in the corner of his bottom drawer, pushed back and long forgotten, collecting dust, perhaps even rust. And he won't dare to admit out loud what drew his eyes to that drawer, what motivated his body to lean over and open it. But silently he knows; it was a pinch of courage, a dash of hope, all mixed with an old fantasy he never dared dream would actually ever become a reality. He was taking a chance so early in this deepening relationship, one that was still less than twelve hours old. He thinks he knows her well enough by now, thinks he can take this risk, knows he is able to laugh it off as a joke if she shows discomfort or hesitation.

A gift from Lanie, handed to him while a twinkle lit up her eyes, during his first year on the team, after she had overheard he had been cuffed to Beckett's Crown Vic on more than one occasion. She had decided he had needed something more comfortable, and had handed them to him in front of the what felt like the entire precinct.  
He had taken the gift in stride; He had accepted them, cracked a joke, cuffed one to himself, and thrown Beckett a suggestive look while holding out the second cuff. He had received an eye roll from her at the time, and later a jab in the chest when she got him alone in the break-room and ripped into him for trying to embarrass her like that.  
After he had returned home, he had been tempted to simply pitch them in the open trash can, but as a second thought he had thrown them into the bottom drawer instead - and forgotten about them.

Until now.

But of course she has done him one better. The cuffs slide off his finger and bounce upon the mattress as his attention is first diverted to the ice tray she's holding out to him, and then up to mildly haughty smirk on her lips.

* * *

Ah, Lanie. She would have to thank her friend later. She was also going to have to thank an issue of Cosmopolitan from when she was eighteen, one that opened her eyes to just how much fun ice could really be.

She kneels at the end of the bed, places the tray in front of her, and pulls the white shirt over her head.

She had reached for the nearest item of clothing to slip on before exiting his bedroom, and his shirt folded neatly over a chair had been a perfect fit. After rolling the sleeves up, she had held the collar to her nose as she had exited his room, and inhaled deeply. His scent had overwhelmed her, warmed her, calmed her. An olfactory reminder that it was all real.

Entirely too proud of herself, she can't keep from smiling when his eyes darken with arousal, when she can see nothing but _want_, and _need_ and _now, _on his features_. S_he sweeps her tongue out between her parted lips, moistening them as she moves up the bed, and straddles his hips. She stays raised up on her knees, denying both of them the contact, as she gazes down at him through dark, long lashes.

* * *

He reaches for her, pulls her flush against him, his mouth opening to hers as their lips meet. While her mouth is otherwise occupied, and her mind elsewhere, he presses the leopard-print covered cuffs to her skin, securing them around her petite wrist.  
The headboard wasn't chosen with such activities in mind, and he is contemplating her other wrist, when he is caught unawares. Before he has time to register her actions, she has curled her hand over his, snagged the cuff, and snapped it around his own wrist, with all the dexterity and grace of a police detective.

They're hitched, bound, cuffed together. This time, left to right.

She pulls back, grinning at him.

In his mind he hears her voice, teasing and low.

_Next time, let's do it without the tiger._

Her fingers link with his, their palms warm and pressed flat together. She holds his hand and slides down his body, down the length of the bed, until their palms separate and just their joined fingers remain connected.

She's going to be the death of him.

* * *

She keeps her eyes locked on his. Her free hand moves to her side, and she palms a small cube of ice, her lips curling up in a salacious smile. Her tongue slips out between her lips, and she runs it over her lower lip before she sucks the lip between her teeth. His eyes drop from hers to her lips, right where she wants them.  
She watches him, his eyes dipping lower to her breasts before once again focusing on her lips. She releases her lower lip, and runs the melting ice over it, presses it through her slightly parted lips and into her mouth.  
His fingers press a little harder between her knuckles in anticipation, and she knows she is slowly killing him.

She tucks her hair behind her ears with damp fingers, the curls beyond taming right now. She doesn't dare glance in a mirror. Judging by the number of times she has awoken to him running his fingers through her hair during the night she can tell he doesn't seem to mind her mussed look. Murmurs of _so soft, so beautiful_ reached her ears on a couple of occasions, her breath hitching, her heart swelling, at his tone, his words.

With the ice rapidly melting in her warm mouth, one hand linked with his, the other stabilizing her on the mattress, she dips her head, presses her lips to the head of his shaft, and takes him in.

* * *

He can't breathe, can't form anything resembling a coherent thought. He's pretty sure his heart stopped beating for a moment. She's hot, and cold; alternating degrees of temperature surround him, and it's blowing his mind. With just her mouth, her lips, her talented tongue, she's bringing him to the precipice faster than he dreamed possible. He's trying to hold on to control, trying to make this last just a little longer, but the sensations, and the visual of her head bobbing just below his waist, is all just too much. Kate Beckett, her hair spread out around him tickling his skin, her wrist cuffed to his, is currently running a small piece of ice up and around the most sensitive part of him using just her tongue - and he's more just a little terrified that he's going to wake up from this at any moment.

He slams his eyes shut, the back of his head pressing down into the pillow beneath, barely keeping it together.

And then it all stops. The tickling, the heat, the ice, the vibrations and the suction. It all just ceases. He refuses to open his eyes, convinced he'll awake to a dark, empty room, convinced the soft touch of her hand in his is all just in his head. He clings to her nevertheless, desperate for this to all be real.

Mere seconds pass between sensations, but it feels like an eternity. Her free hand caresses his face, her fingers trailing down his cheek, willing him to open his eyes with just a touch. And then he releases the breath held deep in his lungs. He opens his eyes and meets hers. She watches him intently, her eyes showing concern. He smiles, takes her hand in his and brings her palm to his lips, brushing kisses across her skin. He's an idiot with an imagination so fierce he's losing track of what's real and what's in his head.

But this is real. This is so real.

* * *

She nods, her fears soothed, and pulls her hand back away from his lips. She had shifted up while his eyes were closed, so that she now sits straddling his thighs, raised on her knees once more. With a satisfied nod that she hasn't freaked him out by taking it too far, she moves up a little higher, angles her pelvis slightly, holds him gently in place, and sinks down, taking him in.

A soft sigh escapes her lips as he fills her. She braces her hand on his chest, the other still linked with his, and bows her head, her hair cascading around her face, as she takes a moment to revel in the feel of him.

His hand lays upon hers on his chest, and he gently tugs it up. Palms against palms, fingers entwined, both hands now sealed to his, she begins to move her hips. With each sweep of her pelvis against his she is pulled closer to the edge. She sinks down, and takes him deeper, crying out softly from the feelings engulfing her. The friction, the heat, _him_ - she loses control quickly and the world explodes around her.

She rests upon him, her long body on his, their hands still joined, her head turned slightly on his shoulder and her lips pressed against his sweat-slicked skin.  
She sighs softly, both in contentment, and resignation. In words barely audible, she tells him the story of what brought her to his door, and he remains silent while she speaks. He listens, absorbs. His hand releases hers and sweeps up and down her back, switching to rubbing comforting circles the more she admits to him.

* * *

He's taking it all in, and even after she has finished he remains quiet. He turns his head, and kisses her forehead softly. He worries about what all this means, but he won't question her now. Easing his hand between them, he flicks the release on the cuffs and they open around her wrist. She mimics his actions and releases the cuffs from his own wrist.

* * *

She rolls, and stretches on the bed beside him, limbs long, spine curving, like a cat in a sunbeam. A tigress. Supine. She turns into him, presses her skin to his. Her pillow now at the end of the bed, she rests her head on the corner of his - and they sleep.

* * *

**AN: I apologise for the delay in getting this part out. Frozen Heat sucked away my weekend, and then the S4 DVDs sucked away the rest of my week. And suddenly it's Saturday again and I'm almost a week behind. AND THEN THE SNEAK PEEKS CAME OUT and I lost the ability to do anything but fangirl. **


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Definite spoilers for 501 in this one, folks. And thank god I waited until after the episode aired, so yes this went through a bit of a rewrite, but the end result is still the same...**

* * *

**Round- - -   
**

Castle sleeps soundly on his back beside her. She had awoken on her right side, her body turned and curled towards his, seeking him out even while asleep. Her knuckles graze the hairs on his arm, and she inches just a little closer to his warmth, but not quite touching. Her body-clock had awoken her at the usual time, but there is no need to rush about, no need to move just yet. She places her elbow on the mattress, rests her head in her hand, and watches him.

The calm of the moment is fleeting.

Her stomach growls, the sound audible in the silent room, and she briefly wonders how long it has been since she put anything of substance into her body. Lunchtime yesterday, maybe. Perhaps not since breakfast. Too long. The pull of caffeine, the machine calling to her from his kitchen, is too strong.

She eases off the bed, slips back into his white shirt, doing up just a couple of buttons, and pads softly out of the room. She moves easily around his kitchen while the coffee machine grinds and hums along.

Two mugs; sugar; milk.

She doesn't know _exactly_ where he keeps everything, but she finds it all before the machine is done.

The comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air around her, and she smiles to herself while she prepares two cups.

* * *

He awakes with a start, lurching forward, propelled by the fear it was a dream. His heart is pounding as he reaches blindly for her-

She's not there.

But the space beside him is warm, it's clearly been slept on, yet the hollow ache of waking alone lingers.

She's not beside him.

And then... He hears it.

The soft sound of bare feet on wood.

And he sees movement at the door...

She's here, she didn't leave him; his eyes stay fixed on her, just taking it all in.

Dressed again in nothing more than his white shirt, barely buttoned, with two cups of coffee in her hands, she settles down beside him. He's sure he's had dreams like this.

_Now?_ He watches her, feels the fear again, and makes a decision. Yes. Now is the time to question her, to confirm that this means as much to her as it does to him. He needs reassurance. He needs her.

There is some hesitation as she responds, her eyes unsure, her tone low, her smile fleeting. But she promises this means more to her than one night, so he believes her.

As her fingers begin to undo the buttons holding the shirt together, he stares. He is allowed to watch now; his eyes can drop to once forbidden parts of her, his gaze can linger without fear. He can touch her now too.

He moves the shirt off her shoulders, his fingers sweeping softly across her warm skin, his gaze yet to shift from her breasts.

* * *

A soft laugh escapes her lips, and it's almost a giggle although she will deny that later. She leans in to kiss him, seeking out his lips, his tongue, his taste, once more - when he pulls back suddenly.

She can't help but smile as she turns towards the sound. It's Martha.

And. Oh God. It's _Martha_.

She is propelled to the floor, pushed by his body as he seeks cover. They land in a tangle of a limbs; she clutches at the pillow while he scrambles to cover himself with the sheet. They stand together. They can do this. They're all adults. She positions the pillow, covers herself, and stands prepared...

Stands unprepared.

Castle, sheet wrapped around his body like a toga, muscles taut, eyes filled with fear and desperation, shoves her, his scantily-clad muse, towards his closet.

His _closet_? _  
_

If he ever tries this move again the next thing she inspires will be a tragedy.

Round four is going to have to wait.

* * *

**And if you're still not yet sick of my words. I'm annie_x_m on twitter. **


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